


Puppies and Proposals

by Englishtutor



Series: A Watson When You Need One [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Gen, Ian Wants a Puppy, Ian is a match-maker, Irish Setter Pup, New Year's Eve, museum
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:36:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6845101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englishtutor/pseuds/Englishtutor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>+Benedict Cumberbatch played the part of William Pitt the Younger in the movie “Amazing Grace”, the story of my personal hero, William Wilberforce.  If you have not seen this movie, stop whatever you’re doing and go watch it now!</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Christmas is Soon

He stood on the coffee table staring fixedly at the bits of evidence tacked to the wall over the sofa, feet wide apart, hands steepled against his lips meditatively. In the background, he could almost hear his nephew say . . . something irrelevant.

“Hmm,” was Sherlock’s eloquent reply.

A small hand grasped a handful of his trouser leg and Ian pulled himself up onto the table beside his uncle. “Chwistmas is soon,” he repeated happily.

Ian’s uncle shook his head. “Christmas is NOT soon,” he sighed.

“It VERY soon,” Ian insisted.

“No it isn’t,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes glued to the wall.

“Is so!” the three-year-old child averred stubbornly.

“Is not,” the thirty-nine-year-old consulting detective asserted confidently.

“Is!” Ian doggedly maintained.

“Isn’t.” Sherlock finally deigned to look down at the small Watson, and the sight caused a smile to tug at the side of his mouth. Ian was standing ramrod straight on the coffee table, feet wide apart, steepled hands touching his lips, as he stared at the evidence wall in perfect mimicry of his uncle’s stance. 

“Mummy say so,” Ian said with an air of finality. This clinched the argument and they both knew it. No one argued with Ian’s mum about . . . well, about anything, really. Certainly hers was the last word in all things cultural and social. But Sherlock was still puzzled. How had the time passed without his notice? Surely they had just endured Bonfire Night quite recently. And now another pointless holiday was approaching already? Horrors!

“What month is it?” he mused, frowning. 

He knew the moment those words left his mouth he had made a mistake. Mary had taken to setting lists of things Ian needed to memorize to music, and it took very little to send the child into concert-mode. Their latest project had been learning the months of the year and Mary had set them to the tune of Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus”. 

“Jaaaan-oo-wary! Feeeb-oo-wary!” Ian sang with all the gusto of an overly-enthusiastic opera star. His uncle stepped down from the coffee table and stood a little ways back, enduring the concert. It had admittedly been a bit charming the first few times Sherlock had heard it, but had long since begun to pall.

At last the song was ended, with a great many dramatic arm gestures and flourishes, and Ian bowed grandly.

“Right,” Sherlock nodded. “Accurately rendered, as it was the first thirty-six times you regaled me with that particular ditty.” Ian giggled. “However,” Ian’s uncle continued, “it did not answer my question, did it? Which of those twelve months are we currently experiencing?”

Ian reached down and fetched the great detective’s phone from the top of the coffee table by his feet and handed it over wordlessly, rolling his eyes in a manner reminiscent of his father. 

Sherlock checked the date, then held the phone out for Ian to see. “There: it’s only November the twenty-fifth. It’s an entire month until Christmas. I do not call that soon, do you?”

“Aslan call ALL times soon,” Ian told him. His father had been reading “The Chronicles of Narnia” to him at bedtime.

Sherlock sighed. “Well, I’m not a great, talking lion, am I?”

Ian giggled again, then went back to the subject at hand. “Mummy buyed lots of pwesents. She buyed ALL the pwesents!”

“I’m not surprised. Your mother is a Christmas fanatic and abhors last-minute shopping,” his uncle conceded acerbically. However, his interest was now piqued. Mary always bought him the most interesting gifts for Christmas—not the usual, practical things most people gave him, but . . . well, FUN things. On their first Christmas together, she had presented him with three large, colourful, cheap-looking plastic guns which fired squishy foam balls. He had turned his nose up at the childish things disdainfully, until John had snatched one up and shot him with it. After that, it had been a free-for-all for hours, with the three-way war spreading throughout the flat, down the stairs, and spilling out into the street below. 

The following Christmases had brought similar surprises. Last year, it had been remote-controlled helicopters, which he and John had flown for hours as they each tried to knock the other’s chopper out of the air. Sherlock would never admit it to anyone, but he looked forward to Mary’s gifts to him with the fervency of a child.

“I don’t suppose you know what she got for me?” he asked Ian with deliberate casualness, looking at him slyly.

His nephew smirked. “I not tell!” he grinned mischievously.

Sherlock picked the boy up from the table and sat on the couch, putting the child in his lap. “What if I promise to take you to the park?”

“I not tell,” Ian repeated cheerfully. “Dad will take me.”

“What if I gave you my entire package of chocolate biscuits?”

Ian’s resolve wavered for a second, but he quickly got hold of himself. “I not tell!” he said firmly.

“Hmm. Can’t be bribed, eh? An honest soldier. I suppose I’ll have to torture you for the information,” Sherlock mused thoughtfully. He looked into Ian’s face and smiled menacingly. Ian began to shriek with laughter in anticipation before his uncle had even begun to tickle him. Falling backwards onto the couch, the child dissolved into giggles as long fingers tickled his ribs and sides and found his underarms.

“I not tell! I not tell!” Ian chortled, gasping for air. “Stop, Uncle Sh’ock, I not tell!”

Sherlock stopped immediately and Ian flung himself back into his uncle’s lap, panting and chuckling and exhausted. “I a good so-jer. I not tell,” he wheezed heroically.

“You have true courage, not to give up information under duress. You’ll be a formidable soldier one day,” Sherlock commended him. Ian nodded in solemn agreement and rested his head on his uncle’s shoulder. So that was not the reason the boy had brought up the subject of Christmas. He thought a moment and then tried again.

“So, Ian, what do you want for Christmas?” Sherlock inquired.

Soberly, the child looked thoughtfully into middle space. “I want Aunt M’y to not be sad,” he said at last.

Sherlock was thoroughly taken aback. This was not at all what he had expected. But little Ian, possessed of his father’s compassionate nature and his mother’s generous, loving heart, was every inch a Watson, putting others ahead of himself even when it came to his Christmas wishes. 

“Why do think Aunt Molly is sad?” Sherlock ventured; although he had, himself, noticed that Molly had been even quieter than usual of late—ever since the “Tom Fiasco”, as it had been labelled.

“She look sad when she think no one sees,” Ian explained. “But I see. I see her look sad. I want her to be not sad.”

Sherlock swallowed down an unexpected lump in his throat. He wanted Molly to “be not sad”, too. She had been a good friend for many years, and he cared about her a great deal. But he had no idea how to make people happy. 

There had been a time when Sherlock thought Molly might want to have a relationship with him that went beyond friendship. But all emotions, in particular love, stood opposed to the pure, cold reason he held above all things. And he knew himself too well. He would make a rubbish boyfriend. Playing violin at all hours and not speaking for days on end might be acceptable behaviour in a flatmate, but even Sherlock was aware that this was not how a boyfriend should behave. And a friend like John might be able to forgive the odd drugging of his coffee and the occasional two-year-disappearance-without-a-word—but would a significant other? And should she? Sherlock had learned a great deal about relationships from John and Mary, and he knew he was not good boyfriend material. He might go into a relationship with good intentions, but his attention would inevitably stray and the entire experiment would end in disaster. Molly deserved better.

“I’m afraid I don’t know how to make Aunt Molly not sad,” he told Ian gently. “I wish I did.”

Ian nodded. “I know,” he replied with ruthless honesty. “But you askted what I want, not what I want YOU to give me!”

“Ah,” Sherlock was enlightened. The logic of a three-year-old was not that dissimilar to the logic of a consulting detective, after all.

“Anyway, Mummy say she have a plan.” Ian stated this as if it were not one of the most alarming things he’d ever said. Sherlock made a mental note to warn Molly that Mary was plotting for her happiness. It was the least he could do for his pathologist.

“Well, what do you want ME to give you for Christmas, then, Ian?” he quickly changed the subject. 

Ian gave his uncle his most beguiling smile. “A puppy!”

A puppy! Sherlock thought longingly of his own beloved Red Beard, taken from him far too soon. The grief and regrets of his youth had gently faded over the years, replaced with gratitude for the devotion and attention the dog had given a lonely child. Didn’t every boy need just such a faithful companion? 

Still—“What do your parents say about your owning a pet?” he asked cautiously.

“Landlady say no aminals in our flat,” Ian pouted with disgust. “She a grumpy ol’ lady!” He continued hopefully, “But we could keep the puppy here. Gran won’t mind it. She not grumpy!” ‘Gran’ was Ian’s name for Mrs. Hudson, a much more benevolent landlady than the one who owned the Watson’s building. 

And now that he had got started, Ian’s words tumbled out in a rush. “We could share him. I could come ev’ry day an’ help you take him for walks an’ feed him an’ play fetch inna park an’ give him baths an’ pet him and . . . .” 

Sherlock was impressed. Ian had obviously given his plan a great deal of thought. 

“An’ he could be with you when I not here, so you not miss me. Please, Uncle Sh’ock? It be fun!” Ian finished his litany, his eyes huge and his face pleading.

Sherlock’s heart was doing funny things in his chest. Ever since Ian had come into his life, the detective had suffered from unprecedented levels of sentimentality, turning his philosophy of holding only to cold reason on its head. It was beyond his power to deny his nephew anything. He found himself quite willing to go to ridiculous lengths just for the reward of the child’s sunny smile.

Carefully, he allowed no expression to show on his face. Inside, he was a flurry of excitement. The thought of Ian playing with a little red setter pup gave him more joy than he would ever have thought possible.

“I’ll have to give it some thought,” he said, in a deceptively casual monotone. 

Ian was not fooled. “Yay! A puppy!” he rejoiced. “I love you, Uncle Sh’ock!”

There was no going back.


	2. Christmas is Here

It was love at first sight, and no doubt about it.

Of course, things did not go according to plan that Christmas morning, but do things ever go according to plan on a Christmas morning? The puppy was meant to be the grand finale of the gift-giving ritual; but the infernal whining and pathetic yelping of the Irish setter pup gave the whole show away. Ian’s present was shut up in the entirely comfortable little kennel in Sherlock’s bedroom, but was protesting with as much fervour as if he had been consigned to the pits of hell. So much for surprises! The moment Ian walked into Sherlock’s flat, he began to leap about in excitement and to yell: “My puppy! My puppy! I hear my puppy! Lemme see my puppy!”

Greg, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson had all arrived before the Watsons, and now rose to watch the presentation as Sherlock disappeared into his room and re-emerged carrying a barking bundle of silken, rusty-red fur. He and the puppy had spent the past three days getting acquainted, and they liked each other well enough. But a glimpse of Ian and the puppy lost any interest in consulting detectives, converting to a devout worship of a three-year-old Watson. Escaping Sherlock’s grasp and hurtling to the floor, the puppy launched himself at his new master and knocked the boy off his feet. Squealing and giggling with delight, Ian rolled on the floor with his little companion, receiving a libation of doggy kisses all over his face.

The reaction of the adults in the room, Sherlock noted, was to ask all manner of questions which did not seem to require answers.

“Have you ever seen anything so sweet?” Mrs. Hudson murmured fondly.

“Isn’t that just too adorable?” Molly gushed, smiling broadly.

“Look at the size of those paws,” Greg said to John admiringly. “He’s going to be a big fellow, don’t you think?”

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” John agreed.

“What do you say to Uncle Sherlock, darling?” Mary asked her offspring, the first question that required a response.

Ian, his face alight with joy, disentangled himself from his pet and struggled to his feet. “Thank you, Uncle Sh’ock!” he yelled, throwing himself at his uncle, who lifted him into a heartfelt embrace. This elicited an instant chorus of “aww” from the women.

The detective gave the elder Watsons his best “I-told-you-so” look over their young son’s head, feeling quite vindicated. Ian’s parents had insisted on involving themselves in the dog-shopping process, much to Sherlock’s annoyance, with much research and many phone calls to various dog-owning friends and kennel clubs.

“There seems to be a consensus that bulldogs are the best breed for children’s pets,” John had concluded, adding wistfully, “I always wanted a bull pup, myself.”

Huffing impatiently, Sherlock had reminded him that he was not purchasing this animal for him. “Ian wants an Irish Setter, and an Irish Setter it will be,” he declared firmly.

“This website said that Irish Setters may be too rambunctious for small children,” Mary had sounded worried. “And they get so big. How about a nice little Yorkshire Terrier?”

John had scoffed loudly. “That isn’t a dog. It’s a dust mop. Ian wants a real dog, not a toy.”

Mary had ignored her husband. “Ian’s never mentioned Irish Setters to me, Sherlock. When did he ever say anything about Irish Setters?” she had demanded.

“He didn’t have to say it. I deduced what he wants,” the detective had asserted with great dignity. In the end, of course, Sherlock had simply bought the pup he wanted, and as expected, both adult Watsons had adored it immediately.

“You know, Sherlock, this is a great responsibility you’ve taken on,” Mary had reminded him after giving her official approval of his choice. “One of us will be over every day to help, but most of his care will fall on you.”

Long-suffering Sherlock had sighed, “I am well aware of that, Mary. I am not a child.”

She had continued as if he had not spoken. “You’ll have to make sure he’s fed every day and is taken for walkies.”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock had snarked, “John lived with me for years and I never let him starve or want for exercise.”

This had been the end of the conversation as far as Mary was concerned, as she fell onto the couch, helpless with laughter.

John, not amused at all, had growled crossly, “I’ll thank you to remember, Sherlock, that this dog will not cook your dinner, clean up your messes, or pay your taxi fares for you as I did. You will have to be the caretaker in this relationship, not the puppy.” 

Her husband’s remarks and Sherlock’s answering scowl had served only to make Mary howl with renewed mirth, tears running down her face. And her humour had been contagious, drawing sheepish grins from both of her boys.

 

Now Sherlock decided it was time to ask Ian a question of his own. “What will you name him, then?” he inquired, as the red pup whined and mourned at his feet, unable to reach his beloved owner.

“Gladstone,” the child replied promptly, struggling to get down and play with his pet. His uncle obligingly put him back on the floor, where the boy dropped to his knees and gathered his wriggling puppy back into his arms.

Greg snorted. “He’s naming his dog after a prime minister?” he chuckled.

“Please don’t ask him to sing the song,” Mrs. Hudson whispered to Mary, loud enough for all to hear. Murmurs of agreement were heard around the room. Mary’s latest school-related project had been to set the names of the prime ministers of the United Kingdom to the tune of “God Save the Queen”—they fit the music surprisingly well -- and Ian loved to perform it for his family, ad nauseum.

“Why THAT prime minister?” Sherlock demanded. “Why not a less obscure one, like Winston Churchill, or William Pitt the Younger+?”

“Oh, listen! Sherlock knows the names of TWO prime ministers!” Mary exclaimed, clapping her hands in mock excitement.

John smirked, “He knows Maggie Thatcher, too. That helped him to solve a case once.”

Molly was on the floor with her nephew, petting the puppy’s silken ears. “I think Gladstone’s a lovely name,” she assured him. “I think it suits him perfectly.”

“’Glad’ mean ‘happy’,” Ian explained. “An’ ‘stone’ mean ‘strong’.”

“Gladstone was a decent leader,” John affirmed. “’Grand Old Man’, they called him.”

“’God’s Only Mistake’, some called him,” Mrs. Hudson chuckled. “But we won’t mention that to OUR Gladstone.”

Coffee and tea were served out for all, and a light breakfast of crumpets and muffins and fruit was set out on the table for the family to nibble as gifts were exchanged. Ian was encouraged to put his puppy down long enough to eat a bite and to open his other gifts, most of which were puppy-related—a collar, a leash, dog toys. Sherlock’s greatly anticipated gift from Mary proved to be a dart board with professional, steel-tipped throwing darts; and a blow-pipe with little feathered darts—along with an admonition to keep them out of the reach of small children and puppies. Sherlock immediately hung the dartboard on the back of the sitting room door and the men took it in turns to give it a go the rest of that festive day.

As the morning proceeded, Sherlock wondered about Ian’s other Christmas wish—to “make Aunt M’y not sad”. He had been watching Mary and Molly’s interactions quite closely for the past month, trying to decipher Mary’s plot to cause Molly’s happiness. He was beginning to believe that Ian was mistaken and that his mother had no such plans—there had been no move towards that end at all, as far as he could tell. If anything, Molly looked even more emotionally distraught than ever when she thought no one was looking.

One of the last gifts to be opened was a very large box from the Watsons to Molly. Sherlock leaned forward in this chair with keen interest. Perhaps this would be the thing which was meant to take the sadness from Molly’s heart. A lovely set of luggage was revealed as Molly opened the package, and she gasped as if in pain.

“Oh, Mary! It’s . . . beautiful! Just beautiful . . . but. . . .” Molly laughed her nervous laugh. “I . . . feel like you’re trying to get rid of me?”

Mary looked horrified. “Oh, no, no, dear! I’m just ensuring that you come back to visit us often!”

Greg, who had been having his turn at throwing darts, froze at this and turned to look at Molly. “Erm, are you going somewhere, Molls?”

“Yes, dear, what is Mary saying?” Mrs. Hudson asked with concern.

“Oh, Molly, you haven’t told anyone yet?” Mary cried, as if in disbelief—but Sherlock plainly could see that she was not surprised by Molly’s reticence. He looked at John, who was wearing his resolute ‘not-getting-involved’ face. Curious!

Molly blushed furiously, a phenomenon which Sherlock had noted happened whenever anyone was paying her too much attention. “Oh, it’s just I’ve . . . I’ve had a sort of a job offer . . . in Edinburgh.”

“A job offer!” Mary exclaimed. “Is that what you call it? Chair of Pathology of the University of Edinburgh College of Medicine, that’s all! Only one of the most prestigious medical schools in the world—and they wanted you out of all the possible candidates!”

Sherlock noted with interest that the darts Greg was holding fell to the floor, in spite of the fact that he had shown a good bit of expertise with them. He watched the D.I. duck and fumble to pick them up, observing his shock with detached interest.

“Oh, Molly!” Mrs. Hudson squealed in excitement. “What an enormous honour! And well-deserved, too!”

“Yeah, Molly, congratulations,” Greg managed to say, his face gone quite pale. Sherlock wondered what the man’s problem was.

“Well, I. . . .” Molly stammered, her voice shaking with nerves. “I haven’t decided. . . . I don‘t know if I’ll accept it. . . . “

“Of course, you’ll accept it!” Mary told her confidently. “How can you not? Such a fabulous opportunity doesn’t come along every day!”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head thoughtfully. “Well, if you’re not sure, dear, you should consider what’s most important: your career or the people who care about you. After all, in the end, family is all you have.”

John, as was his nature, came to the defence of the hapless Molly. “I think we should all keep our opinions to ourselves and let Molly work this out for herself,” he admonished one and all.

Greg roused himself from the odd stupor that had seemed to come over him and agreed with John. “Molly should do what’s best for herself.” 

“Anyway, you’ve plenty of time to make up your mind,” Mary said soothingly. “You won’t have to move there until mid-summer.” Sherlock noted that Greg suddenly looked a little less nauseated when he heard this bit of news.

Molly was agitated. “Yes, but I have to give them an answer soon—by January second. I just . . . I just don’t know what I want to do.”

They had all forgotten about Ian, sitting on the floor with his new pet and listening to the grown-up talk intently, until he suddenly burst into heart-breaking sobs. He hurled himself at his aunt and threw his arms around her neck. “Don’t go, Aunt M’y! Don’t go away! I want you to stay with me!”

Suddenly distressed, Mary went to him and knelt on the floor by Molly’s chair. “Oh, darling, if she decides to go, she’ll come back and see us often, won’t you Molly?” Molly nodded helplessly, running her fingers comfortingly through Ian’s tousled hair. “And we can Skype with her and write her letters. And we’ll go up on the train and see her lots. It will be fine, won’t it Molly?”

Sherlock looked around at the assembled little family. Remarkably, they were all teary-eyed as they gazed at Ian and Molly. Even the puppy seemed to grieve, whining softly at Molly’s feet.

“No, Aunt M’y will be lonely,” Ian mourned. He tipped his head back to look at Molly sadly. “I’ll let my puppy come live with you. Then you won’t miss us. Gladstone can make you not sad. I want you to be not sad, Aunt M’y.”

Molly burst into tears at that. “Oh, my sweet little bear,” she cried, wiping her eyes. “Mrs. Hudson is right. How can I possibly move away and leave you behind? I don’t want to chair a pathology department nearly as much as I want to watch you and Gladstone grow up.”

Sherlock saw that Mary was a rather taken-aback by this development, her eyes teary and red. He watched Mrs. Hudson pull out a handkerchief and wipe her eyes. And Greg, unnoticed by anyone except an observant consulting detective, sat down on the couch with obvious relief, a tender look in his eyes.

000

“How did you do it?” Sherlock demanded of Mary later as he watched her prepare the goose for their Christmas dinner. They were alone in the kitchen—everyone else was on the floor in the sitting room, playing with Gladstone.

Mary’s dimpled deepened mischievously. “I don’t know what you mean, Sweetheart,” she said with great innocence.

“Ian told me you had a plan to make Molly ‘not sad’. How did you get her that job offer?”

She gave an enigmatic smile. “I know people who know people.”

“Mycroft?”

Mary made a very rude noise. “Mycroft is not the only person who knows people,” she stated with great dignity.

Sherlock was enlightened. “Mike Stamford! You asked him to put Molly’s name forward for the position.”

“I certainly did no such thing! I merely noted to Mike that it was a shame he is so young, as Molly is clearly qualified to take over from him when he decides to retire but will have to wait a very long time to gain that advancement. Being kindness personified, Mike was horrified to think that he might be standing in the way of Molly’s career and began to look for a position to suit her that was opening up soon, and persuaded her to apply. Then, of course, her own CV spoke for itself. The College couldn’t wait to beg her to take the position.”

Sherlock thought, as he often did, that the world was fortunate that Mary Watson used her powers only for good. She would have been a formidable criminal mastermind.

“Molly’s brilliant. She deserves a better position, but she hasn’t enough confidence in herself to pursue one,” Mary said, smiling joyfully. “This plan couldn’t go wrong. If getting a marvellous career opportunity is what would make Molly happy, well there it was. And if it wouldn’t and she turned it down, it would still be a great boost to her self-confidence to have been offered the job. And if the threat of Molly moving away forced Greg to get off of his complacency and pursue her, all the better. The only way this could end badly would be if she decided not to take the position because she was holding on to some forlorn hope that you might one day pay her some attention—no offense, Sweetheart.”

Sherlock was confused. “I thought that the ‘Tom Fiasco’ made it quite clear that Molly was moving on from me.” 

Mary nodded. “I was clear to me and to you. But to Greg, the fact that Tom looks so much like you made it a lot more complicated in his mind. He’s been badly hurt by his ex. He won’t put himself in a position to be hurt again. And he’s too much of a gentleman to give a lady unwanted attention; he will never ask Molly out so long as he thinks she might have feelings for you. And he’s too good a friend to you to stand in your way if you should ever decide to reciprocate her feelings.”

“But. . . .” Sherlock was bemused. “None of your possible scenarios have come about. Ian’s reaction took you by surprise and changed everything. And yet you’re happy with the results?”

Mary grinned broadly. “I’m ecstatic! She’s staying, but not because of you. She never even took you into consideration in her decision. It’s perfect!”

Sherlock peered into the sitting room at Greg, who was now sitting quite near to Molly and petting Gladstone’s ears while she rubbed the puppy’s belly. Ian was sitting between them, leaning against Molly, and they were both looking up at Ian’s Papa in rapt attention at something he was saying. It was apparent where all this was going. 

Mary was formidable at scheming, it was true. But Ian was the genius at revealing the hearts of his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Benedict Cumberbatch played the part of William Pitt the Younger in the movie “Amazing Grace”, the story of my personal hero, William Wilberforce. If you have not seen this movie, stop whatever you’re doing and go watch it now!


	3. Lives Intertwined

He sat in his car parked in front of Molly’s building feeling utterly ridiculous. He was so fraught with nerves he could barely catch his breath. Greg Lestrade had a reputation at the Yard for being cool and calm under the most stressful of conditions and in complete command of the most dangerous and trying situations. But now he felt he was going to have a panic attack. And why? He had known Molly Hooper for years now and had spent countless hours with her—in the pathology lab, at Sherlock’s or at the Watson’s flats, at various parties and gatherings. They had even taken Ian on outings together before. This should be no different than the hundreds of other times when he had picked up Molly at her flat.

But Christmas day had changed everything. The idea of Molly’s moving to Edinburgh—so far away! -- had terrified him in a way he could never have imagined even moments before that revelation. And what was more, everyone else at the Christmas party apparently had noticed his shocked reaction.

Sherlock, for example, had intoned in an aside as Greg prepared to leave that Christmas evening: “Is this what we’re doing now? Pairing up? First John and Mary, now you and Molly. You realize that leaves only Mrs. Hudson for me, don’t you?” It had taken several horrifying seconds before Greg could recover his wits to respond. Not only had Sherlock noticed—he was making a joke of it! Sherlock Holmes, making a joke! But at least for that day, Greg had held on to the hope that it was only the sharp-eyed consulting detective who had taken note of Greg’s distressed behaviour.

And then on Boxing Day, while investigating a crime scene, John had ribbed him about “joining the Cradle-Robbers Club.” Greg deserved that crack, having teased John so often about his being so much older than Mary. But it confirmed that Sherlock was not the only one who had eyes in his head. “Don’t worry, mate,” John had laughed jovially. “You don’t look your age by half, in my opinion.”

“Don’t wait too long, dear,” Mrs. Hudson had advised him the next day as she brought a platter of scones to his office. She had been feeding him scones every Wednesday for the past five years, determinedly mothering him, and he had always been pleased to see her before. But now she was becoming meddlesome! “You’re not getting any younger, you know,” the elderly woman had reminded him gently. “You haven’t all the time in the world to waste dithering about.” Greg sighed, frustrated. His life was not his own, that was for certain. 

He hauled himself wearily out of the car, dragged his feet to the door, and pushed the button for Molly’s flat. “Hi, Greg! Come on up!” her cheerful voice came through the intercom, making his heart skip a beat. Stupid heart! What was the matter with it? He entered the building and went to the elevators, pondering.

When Mary had come to his office yesterday, he had been sure she was going to put in her two-cents-worth about his love-life, too. “I brought you Ian’s car seat,” she had said instead. “I installed it in your car already. You really ought to lock your doors, you know. Someone might plant a bomb under your seat or something.” Everyone was so interested in his private business! Where would it end? “He’s terrifically excited about your outing tomorrow.”

“Am I picking him up from yours or Sherlock’s?” Greg had asked. He knew that Ian had been most unwilling to pry himself from his new puppy’s side for the past week. “He knows he can’t bring Gladstone with us, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, yes,” Mary had nodded, but the look on her face was odd. “He’s, erm, well. . . .” She bit her lip pensively. “The newness of Gladstone has worn off enough for Ian to, erm, turn his attention to other matters. In fact, he’s really been torn all week between not wanting to leave the puppy and not being willing to let Molly out of his sight. He seems to think she might sneak off to Edinburgh in the dead of night on a sudden whim, without saying good-bye to him. He’s with her today and will be spending the night at her flat. So you’ll have to pick him up from hers. I do hope this won’t be too awkward for you. . . .”

It was too much. “Why the hell should it be awkward?” he cried out impatiently. “I’ve been to Molly’s flat hundreds of time! We’ve been friends for years! What is everyone’s problem lately? Everyone’s been on my back all week!” Seeing the amused look on Mary’s face forced him to stop mid-rant and cover his face in shame. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap at you,” he mumbled. She patted his shoulder comfortingly. 

“Are you going to Stamford’s big New Year’s Eve bash tomorrow night?” she asked. He groaned inwardly. He knew full well where this was going.

“No, I’m not!” he declared firmly. “And I had not planned on asking Molly to go with me, either. Why is everyone determined to put their nose in my business all of a sudden?” He stopped, watching her bite back a giggle, and backed down. He had always found a sympathetic ear in Mary—he had always tried to be honest with her. Quieting his voice, he said, “Mary, I just can’t risk ruining a perfectly good friendship by making an ass of myself. And I have no reason to believe she’d be the least bit interested in anything other than friendship with me.” 

He looked at her sympathetic eyes and pulled his lips into a frown. He could never to talk to anyone else about his private life, but to Mary he had confessed many of his struggles and most of his heartbreak. “I put everything I had into my marriage, Mary,” he almost whispered. “I couldn’t make it work. I can’t do that again. I’ve nothing left to offer in a relationship—certainly not to a woman like Molly. She deserves much better.”

Mary dropped to her knees by his chair and took his hand in both of hers. “That’s not true, Papa. You have a lot to offer,” she said gently. “Now listen to me. Your marriage didn’t work because of Joanne, not because of you. She was never willing to put the work into it that you did. Now, don’t start arguing with me! I know I wasn’t there, but I know YOU. And I’ve met Joanne. And I see what’s what.” She drew a deep breath and continued. “Joanne never wanted children as you did. She never understood your job, and she resented your dedication to it. She hated Sherlock and couldn’t understand your commitments to him and to your other friends. She wanted you to be someone else. That’s why it couldn’t work.”

“I could have tried harder to be what she needed,” Greg put in. “It wasn’t all her fault.”

“It WAS all her fault,” Mary said sternly. “No one could possibly have tried harder than you did to make her happy, without twisting yourself into someone you’re not. She cheated on you; she left you; it’s all on her. You were a faithful, loving, patient husband to her for over twenty years, and she couldn’t appreciate what she had. That’s not your fault. But Molly . . . . “Mary began counting off on her fingers. “She loves children. She understands your work. She appreciates your commitment to your job and your relationships with your friends. She sees you for who you are. And she is just as capable of faithfulness and commitment as you are.” Then she smiled conspiratorially. “Yes, this is perfect! You both deserve to be happy, and you are just ones to make that happiness happen for each other.”

And so here he was at Molly’s door, a place he’d been so many times before, feeling nauseated with anxiety and more foolish than he’d ever felt in his life.

Ian threw the door open. “Papa Gweg! You here!” he shouted, jumping up and down. Greg’s heart lifted. It was impossible to feel too badly about himself when a three-year-old Watson seemed to think he was something pretty great. He picked the boy up and gave him a cuddle. 

“Ready to go, little man?” he asked.

“I has to eat bwekfess,” Ian told him soberly. “M’y say so.”

M’y herself then appeared in the entryway. “He’s been too excited to eat, waiting for you,” she said, inexplicably breathless. “Come on, Ian, finish your breakfast or you’ll be starving in an hour.” 

They all went to Molly’s comfortable kitchen and Ian climbed onto a chair and plunged a spoon into his porridge with determination.

“I’m sorry he’s not ready,” Molly stammered nervously. “I didn’t want him to keep you waiting, but. . . .”

“It’s fine. There’s no hurry,” he said, amazed that his voice was fairly steady. He sat down and took the mug of coffee she offered him. As he stirred in a lump of sugar, he studied the contents of his cup and said, “Erm, I wondered. . . I mean. . . I know Ian’s anxious about you—seems to have inherited his mother’s fear of people disappearing, hasn’t he? Would you like to come with us? I mean, if you don’t have anything else on today.” He didn’t look up until he’d finished.

Molly turned pink, but she always did that whenever anyone paid her any attention, didn’t she? “Oh, I. . . I don’t want to interfere with your time with Ian,” she hesitated. “This is your special outing with him. Ian wants you all to himself, don’t you, little bear?”

“Nope,” Ian shook his head. “I want you to come, too, M’y! It be fun!”

“Yeah, it’ll be fun,” Greg encouraged. 

“Oh, well, then, sure, I guess,” Molly stuttered. “I . . . where are we going?”

“That’s yet to be determined. How about the zed oh oh?” he suggested, glancing at Ian.

“That spell zoo,” the three-year-old informed them through a mouthful of mush.

Greg chuckled. “Or R-e-g-e-n-t-s?”

“That spell park,” Ian said confidently, and Greg and Molly laughed affectionately together—a wonderful sound.

With a merry twinkle in her eye, Molly teased, “There’s no way in h-e-l-l you’ll get me to spend much time outdoors on such a cold day!”

Ian sputtered into his cereal. “That spell a yelling word. Dad spell that word when he angwy.”

Both adults snorted with surprised mirth. “Can’t you just imagine?” Greg chortled, meeting Molly’s eye, and she knew what he was thinking and laughed until she cried. He had sometimes been utterly mesmerized by the almost poetic outpouring of prolific profanity John was capable of spewing in times of great duress—picturing the soldier-cum-father reduced to having to spell his outrage amused him no end. And laughing with Molly—sharing this joke with her, knowing she understood without his having to explain because his friends were also her friends and their lives were already so intertwined--was so comfortable and warm and real. He realized that he wanted this and was willing to risk making a fool of himself to reach for it.

“I wanna see dinosaurs,” Ian declared, finishing his porridge with a dramatic flourish of his spoon. “Let’s go to a moo-see-um!”

“Shall we?” Greg looked at Molly shyly. 

“Let’s,” Molly said with a smile.


	4. Always There

They were fortunate enough to find parking on Exhibition Road, which meant a far shorter walk than it might have been to the side entrance of the Natural History Museum. Molly walked a step behind Greg, who was carrying Ian, both of the boys chuckling over some joke she hadn’t been privy to, and found herself unable to stop smiling. It was a good feeling. 

After the “Tom Fiasco”, as Mary dubbed it, Molly had thought she would never be able to shake the depression. She felt so used—and so stupid, to have allowed herself to be so used. Mary had spent countless hours listening to Molly’s tearful, rambling diatribes against the male sex in general and against herself for having such horrible judgement in men.

“Ian saw through him in moments, and he’s only three years old!” she had mourned at one point. “I have less discernment than a toddler. What is wrong with me, Mary? Why am I such an idiot?”

“I won’t have you talking of my best friend that way,” Mary had scolded gently. “The Molly Hooper I know is brilliant and beautiful and capable and kind. You’ve had some bad luck with relationships, that’s all. I’m your best friend—would I lie to you? I know you better than anyone, don’t I?”

Molly had sighed. She wanted what Mary and John had found in each other—not just a romance, but a relationship bedrocked in mutual respect and admiration and a deep, unshakeable friendship. “John looks at you like you’re the most extraordinary person he’s ever seen,” she had said wistfully. “I know what it is to think someone is extraordinary. But I’d like to know what it is to be thought of as such, by someone . . . someone I trust.”

Mary had smiled gently. “Open your eyes, my dear, and you will see what you are looking for. Think of the people you trust, and you’ll find him.”

And Christmas day, when Mary had dropped the bomb that was Edinburgh University School of Medical, Molly had seen what Mary was talking about. She had known Greg Lestrade for how many years? Even before Mary had swept into their lives and drawn them all together into a little make-shift family, Greg had been in the periphery of her existence. And after Mary came along, and especially after Ian had been born, Greg had just always been there—a strong, steady, comforting presence in the background of Molly’s life—a dependable friend. But his reaction to the thought of Molly’s moving away had suddenly brought him into the forefront of her awareness. She had several times that day caught him looking at her when he thought no one could see—looking at her with that same expression John had when he looked at Mary. As if plain little Molly Hooper was the most precious, most extraordinary person Greg ever seen. It made her feel humble and exalted all at the same time—that a man of such admirable character should view her in that way.

Watching him now, carrying Ian, made her heart swell with inexplicable warmth. Here was a man who had lost his own family, doting on a little boy who was not his own flesh and blood, but for whom he would rush across town in the middle of the night because the child called him. He must have been a wonderful father. He had certainly been a faithful and patient husband, to have put up with Joanne all those years! 

Once inside the entrance to the museum, Greg put Ian down. The child immediately began to race across the room, heading towards the stegosaurus exhibit. 

“Ian, stop!” both Molly and Greg cried out at once. Obediently, the boy skidded to a halt and turned back. 

“Remember, your mum told you to hold hands so you don’t get lost,” Molly told him. Ian skipped back to them and grabbed their hands cheerfully. Fortunately, both adults were acquainted with the child’s customary antics and so were braced for the inevitable forward lunge as Ian launched himself towards the desired exhibit and dragged them along. 

“This a stegasawwus,” Ian explained to them. “Her name Sophie. She a weal dinosaur, not like Dippy.”

Molly grinned at Greg. “I guess you can tell he’s been here a few times.”

“I came with him and Mary once, a few months ago,” Greg admitted. “Quite the adventure! We lost him once, up in the volcano exhibit. Found him lecturing to a group of schoolchildren about the merits of lava.”

Now they listened with amusement to Ian’s theory about the relationship between the stegosaurus and the dragon. It was fascinating, the way his little mind worked. 

“So they almos’ the same, only not,” Ian soberly concluded. 

“I couldn’t have put it better myself,” Greg agreed amiably, and he and Molly chuckled together. 

Ian’s feet suddenly left the floor and his escorts obediently lifted their arms to let him swing back and forth from their hands. “Let’s go see Dippy now!” he ordered.

“Don’t you want to go upstairs to see the volcano, while we’re on this side of the building?” Molly asked, surprised. Ian adored volcanoes.

“I seen it a zillion-billion times!” Ian declared. “But Dippy be gone soon!” It had been a cause of great sorrow to Ian when he was told that Dippy the Diplodocus, who had for so long graced the main entrance of the museum, was going on tour around the country.

“Not for another year, little man!” Greg reminded him.

“I wanna ‘preciate him while he here!” Ian said, pulling them along. 

“That’s my wise little bear,” Molly cooed. Dippy the beloved dinosaur, she reflected, had been fairly well taken for granted for over 100 years until it had been announced that he was leaving the museum. Then the public outcry had been astonishing. She supposed it was easy to take someone for granted when he was always there, being stalwart and dependable and perfectly lovely.

“Dippy leaving like Aunt M’y,” Ian said mourned. “Is he goin’ to Edin-bwo? Will he be a chair, too? Why you wanna be a chair, M’y?”

Molly’s heart grew warm with affection. She dropped to her knees beside her little nephew and gathered him into a hug. “I’m not leaving, Ian, remember? I’m staying right here with you, I promise.”

“You stayin’ wiff me an’ Mum an’ Dad an’ Papa Gweg an’ Gran?” Ian said. He had asked this question several times a day every day since Christmas, just making certain.

“Yes, with all of you. You’re my family, aren’t you?” she assured him. And it suddenly seemed more true than it ever had. 

When Ian had had his fill of Dippy, they moved on to the dinosaur room. “Why they not let us touch him?” Ian asked of the Tyrannosaurus Rex skull on display.

“Because it’s very, very old, love,” Molly explained.

“Older than dad?” Ian giggled at his own joke.

“Yes, and even older than Papa Greg,” Molly teased, chortling with him. She grinned up at Ian’s Papa, who winked cheerfully. 

They spent a good hour in the dinosaur room, then moved on to the giant mammals where Ian marveled at the blue whale and the mammoth and the other great animals for another hour. 

“I tired,” he said at last, slumping against Greg’s leg, and the D.I. picked the boy up and put him on his shoulders.

“Let’s go to the Café and get some lunch,” Greg suggested, and Molly turned to lead the way.

“No, no!” Ian exclaimed anxiously. “You gotta hold hands! Mum say always hold hands or you get losted! Hold hands! Hold hands or Aunt M’y will get losted!” 

Molly’s and Greg’s eyes met shyly. He lifted an eyebrow and she smiled and held out her hand. His larger hand closed around hers, warm and strong and gentle. It was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to her in her life.

They lunched on sandwiches and muffins in the café, but soon Ian’s head was drooping. 

“It’s nap time,” Molly commented affectionately.

“There’s a four hour limit on that parking spot,” Greg said. “We should get going anyway.”

Molly sighed within herself. It had been a wonderful morning and she never wanted it to end.

“One day, when he’s old enough, we should bring him for that Dino Snore thing for children—you know, where they can spend the night with the dinosaurs,” Greg went on, looking at her carefully.

“Oh, that would be great fun! Let’s do it!” Molly agreed readily, realizing that she was committing to something that would have to be at least four years in the future. Greg’s whole face lit up with joy as he took this in.

“Erm, you know, the Stamford’s annual New Year’s Eve thing is tonight,” he ventured. “I’m always invited, but I never go. I hate going to those things alone. . . .”

“M’y can go wiff you,” Ian offered sleepily. “I can’t go. I staying wiff Gran.”

Molly laughed softly at her little nephew, then met Greg’s eyes. “I wasn’t planning to go either. But if we went together . . . .”

And then there was that look again. Greg was looking at her as if she were the most precious, the most extraordinary thing he’d ever seen.

“Okay. Let’s,” he said.


End file.
